


The League of Concerned Gentlemen for the Protection of Sansa Stark

by Egleriel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (The Greater Good), Absolute crackfic, F/M, Messenger!Sandor, The greater good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel
Summary: Five years after the end of the war, the Hound is bodyguard to Sansa Stark at her royal cousin's court in King's Landing. A new threat is on the horizon, and it seems he is not the only man haunting her steps.





	1. A Proposition

“My lord Hound, how good of you to join us,” came an unctuous voice through the haze.

 

Clegane forced his eyes open despite the glare of spring sunlight. The room was a lot more salubrious than most of the places he’d awoken after a night in the winesinks. Bitterness twisted in him. He hadn’t _been_ in a fucking winesink last night. He hadn’t been in a fucking winesink in moons – not since the last Blackwater festival. Trust the bloody Imp to recreate the worst night of Clegane’s life and celebrate it as a victory for the whole city.

 

“Be fair, my lord,” admonished a voice to Clegane’s left. He rolled his eyes so hard it was almost painful. The Imp himself.

 

“You drugged me,” Clegane stated simply, glaring at the man who’d spoken first. The rest of the room was coming into focus around the Master of Coin, seated on a gilded chair before the window. Silver sunlight blazed at his back, flooding in from high open doorway that could only open onto the bay; it made the man’s features hard to discern, but Clegane knew the silhouette anywhere.

 

“Let us think of it as ‘sedation’,” said Littlefinger lightly. “It’s quite clear that you wouldn’t have joined our little support group of your own volition.”

 

Clegane bit back a retort that had something to do with Littlefinger and his general disdain for the free will of other people. The fog that filled his skull had Clegane doubting his verbal coherence, and in any case, bitching wouldn’t serve his main purpose – which was to get out of this place as quickly as possible.

 

Without moving his head, Clegane counted the chairs ringing Littlefinger’s solar. To his immediate left, the Imp had already spoken; between him and Baelish sat a blond lad with an aquiline nose that had been broken more than once. On Baelish’s other side was a stout copy of Loras Tyrell – or at least Loras Tyrell before Dragonstone, back when he was still pretty. Clegane was aware of a presence in the chair on his right, but pride kept his gaze locked on Petyr Baelish.

 

A response was clearly expected of him, so Clegane barked, “Support group? Tell me why in seven hells you’ve abducted me, Baelish, or I’m going straight to the king.”

 

“You can’t guess what might bring these six specific men together? Tut tut, Lord Clegane; it seems you haven’t been playing close enough attention to your charge. Mayhap you need to be introduced to some of the younger members of the group. My lord Hand you know all too well; may I present to you Ser Harrold Hardyng, heir to the Vale; Willas Tyrell, lord of Highgarden; and beside you is Theon Greyjoy, the Prince of Pyke. All six – yourself included – have a certain… investment in the wellbeing of Lady Sansa Stark.”

 

“Five sad cunts still smarting over a maid,” sneered Clegane. “No doubt having her bodyguard in your pocket would help with whatever you’re plotting.”

 

“ _Bodyguard_ ,” the Imp scoffed. Littlefinger sucked his teeth, radiating disapproval.  “Any fool with eyes can see you’ve loved the girl for years.”

Clegane cast his eyes skyward before dumping a death-stare on Tyrion Lannister. “You’re loyal to the Queen, _my lord Hand_ ; it doesn’t mean you’re trying to fuck her.”

 

The ugly little man flashed a lopsided grin at him. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘trying’. I’ve seen the king’s facility with a dragonglass knife and frankly, I’d like to keep all the parts I have left.” He gestured to his ruined nose, then grimaced. “Begging your pardon, my lord Greyjoy.”

 

 _So many fucking ‘my lords’,_ thought Clegane sullenly. _This is going to be a very long morning_.

 

“Cut the shit, _my lords_. If the lady’s wellbeing was threatened, I’d know.”

 

“No doubt,” said Baelish, the twist of a smirk evident in his words. “Think of us as… a first line of defence. One or two of us have pursued Lady Stark romantically, it is true, but be charitable, Clegane. Others among us have protected her in one way or another. All of us care for her welfare, and all of us are concerned about a new threat.”

 

Clegane felt his blood pressure spike at that.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“Join me on the terrace, my lord.”

 

Clegane hesitated. His legs felt less steady than he might wish, particularly with so many eyes upon him. Sheer bloody-mindedness got him to the balcony, which commanded a view over the godswood and the river far below.

 

His eye was drawn to a streak of autumn red in the lee of the Maidenvault.

 

“As you can see, Lady Stark is taking a turn in the flower gardens this morning. Can you see who is with her?”

 

A one-eyed pigeon could have picked out the hulking cobalt form of Brienne of Tarth, but that wasn’t who Littlefinger meant.

 

“That silver-gold hair narrows down the options. The Queen is up North and shorter besides. Aurane Waters is at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, so that’s either some lordling from the Free Cities, or it’s Prince Aegon.”

 

“Our threat.”

 

“Threat? What business is it of yours who courts the lady?” he demanded, over the hammering of his heart. “Might be you’ve forgotten but you’re not her father.”

 

_I was there when you betrayed Ned Stark, you slimy cunt. I know what you’ve kept from her all these years, and you know that I know._

 

Clegane forced down his rage. There was a particular reservoir of fury that threatened to boil over whenever Sansa’s sojourn in the Vale was mentioned. He guessed far more than he let on about what had happened there; the way Littlefinger’s eyes flickered just now was further evidence of what he’d long suspected. He’d been a father to Alayne Stone, mayhap, but her pimp and her would-be suitor, too.  The body language between Baelish and Ser Harry’s had the tone of rivals, not collaborators.

 

“No, I’m not her father,” said Littlefinger softly. “I can’t prevent her from making a grave error of judgment where this young man is concerned.”

 

Throwing his hands up, Clegane turned back to the assembly.

 

“What the fuck is the meaning of all this, _my lords_?”

 

The Imp shifted uncomfortably in his seat; Harry Hardyng had the good grace to look abashed and Willas Tyrell bowed his head. The cripple of Pyke looked like he wasn’t listening at all.

 

“We have gained a certain piece of information about Prince Aegon that the Lady Sansa needs to learn. Sadly, there is a fear among the group that she will suspect our motives should the news come from any one of us. There is also a political aspect that needs to be handled carefully.”

 

“And you want me to be your messenger-boy.”  The awkward silence that followed told Sandor everything he needed to know. “What if I say no?”

 

“Apart from allowing the lady to be deceived most egregiously? Then we will tell her of your disinterest in helping her. In fact, she’ll hear from the washerwomen just how unchivalrously you expressed your disinterest in her affairs, and in public at that.”

 

Clegane weighed his options. It would do no harm to hear them out, at least, even if their threat had less bite than a duckling. His temper simmered. Did these cunts really think it so inconceivable that the little bird might have faith in him?

 

“I see,” he grunted. “So will you tell me now or do you mean to wait until the girl is wedded and bedded?”

 

Tyrion Lannister bristled, as Clegane knew he would, but Littlefinger’s eyes were sparkling as he began.

 

“A certain amount of historical background is needed…”


	2. A Delivery

Dismissed, Clegane stalked down the hallway with his head spinning. The sedative hadn’t entirely worn off, and he would have killed for a skin of cool water.

 

So Prince Aegon wasn’t who he claimed. He’d heard it theorised over gambling-tables: King Jon and Queen Daenerys had never explained why they retained the throne between them when by right it belonged to the lad purported to be Prince Rhaegar’s elder son. Didn’t it? All right, Jon and Daenerys – despite being younger – had experience of command, even if they lacked Aegon’s cultivation. Clegane had just assumed that the royal couple never meant to have children, and so the throne would pass to Prince Aegon in the fullness of time.

 

The exact order of succession interested him no more than how his shirts were pressed. It would happen, he didn’t know exactly when or how, and it would make no substantive difference to his day, even if there was some small visible difference. His job was to keep Lady Sansa safe. He’d stick to that regardless of who sat the Iron Throne or what state his sleeves were in.

 

 _Any fool with eyes can see you’ve loved the girl for years._ Clegane’s gut squirmed. The Imp was more observant than most, but the royal court was full of observant bastards. It made him sick to the stomach to think what the Imp might have seen. Had he openly gazed at her like some lovesick squire when he thought no-one was looking? Did his face light up pathetically whenever she spoke to him? Seven fucking hells.

 

His leg and his stoic reputation might be in tatters, but his ears bloody well weren’t. Soft footsteps had trailed him from Littlefinger’s turret. The agility that had once been so effortless for Clegane took a bit of premeditation now, but with practiced swiftness he spun his big frame into an alcove just ahead of the stair. An attentive sneak would have noticed the change in the light as Clegane’s bulk blocked out the window behind him, but his suspicions were confirmed as the lad crept on, oblivious.

 

In an eyeblink, Clegane sprang from his niche and pinned the Prince of Pyke against the doorframe.

 

“The last eunuch who followed me round the Red Keep wore silk slippers,” he rasped. “I suggest you find yourself a set.”

 

Greyjoy slumped as Clegane let him go, eyes darting wildly around for any further ambush.

 

“Did you really think I’d go anywhere but the lady’s quarters?”

 

His gaze fixed on the floor, the heir to the Iron Islands shook his head slowly. “Some of the others think…” The lad swallowed, voice cracking. “Some of them think you serve another master.”

 

Clegane palmed his face. These fucking courtiers.

 

“And why, in seven hells, would they think that?”

 

The broken creature lifted his head. The ghost of an old defiance animated his once-handsome face, and Clegane was startled to glimpse the smirking lordling he’d met at Winterfell before the war.

 

“You’ve served her for four years and never sought out allies. There’s a rumour you have a steady income from the Free Cities. Highgarden thinks you know something, though Littlefinger doesn’t think you have it in you.”

 

“Where do you fit into this slimy cabal anyway? Weren’t you like a brother to her?”

 

The defiance fell from Theon Greyjoy. “I was her father’s ward,” he said simply.

 

Clegane nodded. He’d seen enough highborn wards wed to House Lannister to guess at Theon’s mind.

 

“You felt you had first claim to her, is that it?” he sneered. It was better to keep the man off-balance.

 

“Once,” admitted Theon softly. “Now, I just feel a duty toward her. I owe a debt to Winterfell.”

 

Clegane considered that for a moment, then drew himself up and went on his way. Unfollowed.

 

 

Crossing the courtyard, he wondered what account Willas Tyrell would give of him. He couldn’t recall ever speaking to the young lord; Clegane hadn’t even known he was in King’s Landing.

 

He certainly hadn’t realised Tyrell was so taken with the little bird. The eldest Tyrell seemed a quiet sort, closer in temperament to reserved Loras than the gregarious and sharp Lady Margaery. He walked with a cane, though Clegane had once seen him dance at a feast. Had he danced with the little bird? Was that all it had taken?   


Gods, what did any of these men _want_ from her?

 

 

“Sandor!” smiled Sansa on her return.

 

“I was right about Littlefinger,” he scraped, taking a pull of water.

 

Sansa shed her light cloak and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Oh?”

 

“He stood me on his damned balcony and pointed you out in the gardens. He knew where you’d be, when, and with whom.”

 

“Marya,” Sansa sighed. Clegane had argued for weeks that one of her handmaids was selling her household’s secrets. Sansa, for her part, suspected the buyer was in House Lannister.

 

“Marya,” Clegane agreed.

 

“What’s his game?” asked Sansa.

 

“Sending me back with conspiracy theories,” Clegane grumbled. He hefted his boot onto his knee and removed his boot-knife to polish it. “Seems the Imp has found some dirt on Prince Aegon that they couldn’t wait for you to learn.”

 

Sansa goggled at him. “Tyrion is working with Littlefinger?”

 

“I know.”

 

“Let me guess. Aegon is an imposter, some Lysene bedslave’s bastard.”

 

“Halfway there.”

 

“A Lysene merchant then?”

 

“You were closer with bedslave, oddly.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

Clegane smirked, stretching the moment, basking in her undivided attention. “Blackfyre.”

 

Sansa clapped her hands, groaning theatrically. “That’s the best version I’ve heard yet.”

 

“Tyrion stayed with a Pentoshi merchant who’d wed a Lysene bedslave. Her dowry was a rug from the pillow-house that sold her. That same rug went down the Rhoyne with a certain Young Griff, because wrapped in the middle of it was the sword of Aegon the fucking Conqueror.”

 

Glancing up from his knife, Clegane saw that Sansa looked pensive, a perfect porcelain doll made flesh with its pretty brow creased in thought.

 

“I can’t tell you if it’s true,” he rasped bluntly. “Only that they were very keen that you should hear it. Said they’d spread rumours about me if I didn’t carry the message and that seemed even more irritating than doing their bidding.”

 

“You’re chattering, Sandor,” said Sansa. There was an odd note in her voice. Had he said the wrong thing?

 

Clegane resheathed the knife and arranged himself more respectfully in the chair. Gods, he’d have given anything to know what was going on inside her head. That, or to have her leave to take her away. The lords or heirs to four kingdoms had designs on the girl. Who knew what sort of plan he was helping to set in motion?

 

Suddenly, Sansa stood. “Would you walk the walls with me?”

 

He blinked in surprise, then bowed his head in acquiescence.

 

“I, too, learned much this afternoon, and I would have your thoughts.”


	3. A Revelation

They ambled at a pace that felt unnatural to Clegane. He'd spent three-and-thirty years stomping purposefully on his own behalf or taking quiet steps in his employer's shadow. The lady was never on _his_ arm; the pace was never chosen to suit  _his_ conversation. And yet, here they were, high upon the barbican where the breeze off Blackwater Bay was proof against any eavesdropper. 

"Aegon sought me out with a query of a... romantic nature," said Sansa suddenly.

Clegane had guessed as much. Still, her words caused a painful tightness at his collarbone that kept him quiet.

"He means to seek the hand of Arianne Martell, but if they both stand to inherit..."

"It's a problem," Clegane grumbled slowly, though privately he was aware of how much his mood had just brightened. " _He_ can't rule the Seven Kingdoms from Sunspear, and _she_ can't rule Dorne from the Red Keep."

"Exactly."

Sansa was known in the court for singing, but the girl had an unusually lovely speaking-voice, too: every vowel and consonant soft and precise, without a breath or a syllable out of place. Clegane was loath to spoil its imprint with his own awful rasp, but as no elaboration seemed to be forthcoming, he didn't see much choice.

"So? What's to be done?"

Sansa smiled wolfishly, eyes narrowed against the glare off the bay. "It's quite a question. Tell me, Sandor: what would you think if a man were to ask me to give up my claim on Winterfell so that he could have my hand?"

"I'd think he could go fuck himself with a spear." The words bubbled out of him unfiltered, without conscious thought. Sansa ducked her head, the way she always did when hiding a laugh.

"All right. And what would you think if I _planned_ to give up Winterfell so that I could be with someone?" 

His brow creased at that. "I'd think you'd need a damned good reason. You Starks are as rare as dragons these days." He thought on it for a moment. "No, bugger that. I wouldn't like to see you give away Winterfell any sooner than I'd give away my sword. It's not just some damned piece of accounting: it's part of who you are."

"Not even for someone I loved?"

Inwardly, Clegane flinched, though his face was well-schooled enough that his expression never flickered. "I wouldn't know enough about it," he grunted. "Still. I don't see why they couldn't want you  _with_  your Winterfell. Maybe they ought to give up their own damned claim."

The little bird's eyes were steady on him as she weighed that up. He had the discomfiting sense that he was being tested in some way, then she gave a nod.

"I told Aegon something similar." She caught his eye. "Just not quite in those terms. I think they need to have a frank discussion about it if they are serious about being married. He shouldn't be afraid to bring it up."

It sounded very simple when she put it that way.

Clegane cleared his throat.

"He didn't tell you he's an imposter usurping the Iron Throne, then," he rasped, making light of the morning's conspiracy as best he could.

Sansa chuckled prettily. "Not in so many words, no."

"And it's not _your_ hand he's after."

The smile fell from her face. "No."

Clegane's heart sank. Slowly, reluctantly, he asked, "Did you _want_ him to pay you court?"

Her pretty face betrayed her surprise. "No, I don't think so. I told you what Jon said to me about wanting to find me a good man. He did give Aegon and Ned Dayne as examples." Sansa directed a sad smile into the wind. "When I was a girl, I dreamed of marrying someone just like Aegon."

"A prince from a storybook," Clegane remarked, only a little sourly.

"A prince from a storybook. One of the last things my father ever told me was his wish that I marry a high lord worthy of me, one who is brave and gentle and strong. And _not_ someone like Joffrey," she added before Clegane could say something snide. "Aegon is no Joffrey, and yet... the war has changed me. I don't want to spend my life dealing with court politics, and so I see a fine young lord like Aegon and never so much as consider what it would be like to wed him." 

Quiet young Ned Dayne, newly dubbed as Sword of the Morning by Balon Swann, was no such courtier. Clegane swallowed his rage and fear.

"Still," Sansa went on, "He is easy company. To all appearances he is Jon's brother, and that makes him kin of mine, too, however indirectly. He brought me a warning today, not only his problems. I see you squaring your shoulders when I say that, but you need not worry. The warning was about you."

The bottom dropped from Clegane's stomach. He wondered which of his many flaws rendered him unsuitable for the lady's service this time. His past loyalties and disloyalty? His bad leg or unchivalrous fighting style? His gambling and whoring, or his greater shame: the one Tyrion and Littlefinger discussed so openly in a room full of men who shared the affliction.

"Aegon got wind that you were involved in one of Littlefinger's intrigues. He noted what a powerful ally you'd be if someone wished to harm me, or manipulate me."

 _You need not worry. The warning was about you._ He remembered the odd look on Sansa's face when he delivered Littlefinger's message, then the abrupt way she invited him to walk with her. 

"Oh, seven fucking hells," he groaned. "I can't keep track of who is playing whom." 

"It seems to me that Petyr wants me to stay away from Aegon, and Aegon wants me to stay away from you _and_ Petyr. Or possibly..." Sansa sighed. "In truth, it doesn't matter much. Whatever is going on, there is no-one whose loyalties are clearer to me than yours."

He looked her in the eye, and concern crept into her expression. She rested a hand lightly on his mailed arm.

"You have my complete trust, Sandor," said Sansa earnestly. "Surely you know that."

The burned corner of his mouth chose that moment to start twitching. "I'm glad of that. Grateful, even. What I said earlier... I didn't mean to take anyone's part-"

"Yes, I know that."

His mouth set in a hard line. Clegane felt like a boy being reprimanded; worst of all, he felt like he'd let  _her_ down.

"Do you think we're being watched right now?"

It was such an odd question that Clegane huffed a laugh. "Almost certainly. Why?"

"Because I wanted to send a message of my own, loud and clear, and this seemed like a good place to do it."

Sansa stepped in front of him on the barbican, moving so that she had a hand on each of his forearms. The ground seemed to shift beneath him like open water. "Sandor, you know you have my trust and my full respect. I've tried to hide it as best I can, but I don't see the point any longer, because for some time now, you've had my heart as well."

Stupefied, Clegane stared at her. He felt the weight of her hands on him, as searing as an iron brand. He felt the softness of her gaze, too, serene and unflinching as it traced his face. 

"Why?" he blurted.

By some miracle, Sansa intuited his meaning, which had been closer to  _why are you telling me here and now_ than the more obvious  _why in seven hells do you care for a broken wretch like me_ , though the latter question was also in need of an answer in Clegane's view. 

Something hardened in those big blue eye. "Today, someone tried to use you to get to me. I can't stand to see you treated like a pawn in some grand game of cyvasse, when to my mind you're one of the most important pieces."

Clegane realised that he wasn't breathing. 

"I haven't misread this, have I?" she asked gently, though her tone held no sign of true uncertainty. "You care for me too, don't you?"

A grin of his own began to spread across his face, but he barely had time to whisper her name before her arms slid around his neck and pulled him into soft, lingering kiss.

 

Hours later, he watched Sansa Stark brush the tangles from her hair and asked his remaining 'why'. He could see her quizzical expression in the silvered glass.

"Be serious, little bird. You're the fairest lady at court and heir to Winterfell. You could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms. Why me?"

Sansa set down her brush and turned in her chair. "I've been desired by men who saw me as an adornment for their high table or a title for their sons, or who wanted to 'save' me to burnish their own ego. None who cared much for my interests or my thoughts. Plenty of high lords who thought themselves brave, who thought themselves gentle, who thought themselves strong."

She crossed the room in her dressing-gown and bent to press a kiss to his mouth. "Too many men. But I'd be happiest with you, provided I can make you happy, too."

"Might be," he conceded. "But mayhaps we ought to check one more time, just to be sure."


End file.
